The Widow
by Ashe3
Summary: A woman of Minas Tirith facing loss at the end of the War


"This son will not be a soldier," I whisper, as I rest my hands against the swell of my stomach. I stand in the doorway of my sister's home, surveying the still-smoking buildings along the first circle of the city. My home is on the second circle, and it sustained damage during the siege. Thankfully, it was not destroyed, but there was no question of living there at present. My sister, an excessively sensible creature, took one look at the cracked roof and soot-blackened garden wall, and carried me off to her home on the fourth circle.

As a girl I swore to never marry a solider, yet here I am now, the widow of a soldier, and perhaps the mother of a fallen solder as well. My mother and grandmother, and those before them, wept as they lost their husbands and sons to the Darkness. This is the fate of a woman of Gondor who married a man who marched off to war, never to return. But my soldier had been my love since I had spied him in my father's company; and as our affection grew and matured, I knew could not refuse him. When I was young I discounted the warnings of those who knew better, and of the darkness that had risen in the east, and what that would. The thrill of love had made all dangers, all bad endings, seem small. Yet time proved me wrong, and as the threat had increased, my children and I were forced to flee our home. 

As we walked back to Minas Tirith, I played the scenarios through my mind. He would be waiting for me in the garden, and out children would run out to him. Our eyes would meet, and he would hold me close and whisper, "I am home, I am home." 

But I knew this was impossible. Perhaps he would be merely injured. 'Tis an odd thing to wish for your husband to be in the Houses of Healing, but I did not contemplate the alternative as we neared the city and the acrid smell of the pyres hung heavy in the air. It was then as the serene beauty of Lossarnach was forgotten in the stench of death-fires, and the rumors seemed real. Tales had come to us of divisions that had lost many men, but I concentrated on calming my children as we left the vale. 

His captain found me at my sister's house soon after we returned, and delivered the horrible news. I was presented with my beloved's shattered sword, and his wedding ring, which had been purchased from one of the charwomen. But beyond these mementos – a token of our marriage, and the shattered emblem of a soldier – I had little left of this man to whom I had pledges myself when I was barely more than a girl. 

Now fifteen years and six – almost seven – children later and the consequences of my choices weighed heavily upon me. I had not escaped the fate of a soldier's wife. Nor that of a soldier's mother, for my oldest had gone with my husband to war. And where is now? A boy who had idolized his father since he could follow him about, swinging a little wooden sword? My baby, a gangly thing, tall and unsure, with a crooked smile and the beginnings of a beard – did he to lie in the mud of the fields below? Or was he marching back from the Black Gates? 

At night the fears would overtake me. How would I support my family? The house was damaged, and there had been little set aside. The child I carried moved impatiently, as if he sensed my worries. My children were pale and quiet, having learned that their father was dead, knowing nothing of the fate of their oldest brother, and seeing their mother lie in despair. 

Today the city is alive again with a new hope. Rumors say that the King is returning to Gondor, and will claim his throne. The evil to the East has been destroyed, and all out long years of struggle are over. From my vantage point on my sister's doorstep, I can see the King's procession enter the city, but it gave me no thrill. My sister had gathered her children and mine early to go watch the festivities. "It is a new age for Gondor," she said with a smile, and she followed the young ones to the main street.

'But her husband is safe,' a jealous voice inside me said, 'so she can still find joy in such remote things as Kings.' I regretted this thought immediately. She has been nothing but a kind, dear and loyal sister, and she had known sorrow when her daughter died this past winter. No, I would not begrudge her husband's safe return. 

I watch the soldiers marching through the gates, led by the new King. I could hear the cheers of the people, the ringing of trumpets. Maybe this child wouldn't be fated to be a soldier. If this was a new age for Gondor – for the whole of our world, perhaps a mother could raise her children without the shadow of doom hanging overhead. I desperately wish for my husband to be by my side, to share with our children these golden days of our people. 

But, he's not, and the thought chills me, despite the warm spring sunshine. I'm left here to bring them up as I can, but in my grief I cannot forget my duty to the ones I love that are still here. I will raise our daughters to never know the sorrows that have beleaguered the women of my family, and our sons to remember their brave father with pride. And I cannot do this by lying abed, thinking only of my misery, and failing them. 

I gather my skirts and walk towards the celebrations, moving slowly, as the son I carry grows heavier by the day. A man comes down the street towards me, and I cry out as I realize that it is my son – walking with a slight limp, but still alive. He sees me and begins to run, that familiar grin breaking across his face. I wrap my arms around him, both of us crying. There will be time later to share sorrows, but for this moment, happiness and peace comes in the form of the sons I now hold.


End file.
